Sherlock's Mercy
by YoungDreamerOfBigThings
Summary: Set three years after 'The Fall' after Sherlock returns. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson investigate a murder scene that is linked to a large drug circle in London with connections to the Black Lotus, Irene Addler and Moriarty's people. After investigating, a young teenaged girl named Mercy comes to 221B and reveals that she is Sherlock's daughter he never knew about!
1. Chapter 1

**Sherlock's Mercy**

Chapter 1:

"**A man and a woman found dead in the woman's home,"** Sherlock read as he sipped his tea solemnly in the dimly lit living room of his shared flat at 221B Baker St.

"**the deceased are linked to large drug circle, left many documents of detailed inside information that may be the key to attacking the pressure points in the drug dealing lords of London's system,"** he continued to read as he scanned over the text he had just received from Inspector Lestrade.

Sherlock rolled his eyes to an invisible, imaginary Lestrade and texted back,

"**Boring." **

He waited for a moment, knowing Lestrade was probably desperate for Sherlock's skills, as always, and would try to convince him to contribute his input. Begging and whining it was more like in Sherlock's eyes more than simply asking for help. Sherlock knew Lestrade long enough to deduct that at this point in the conversation; Lestrade may either give up or say something interesting about the case that would intrigue Sherlock enough to help, out of pure curiosity. His cell phone vibrated in his hand, he looked down and read on it a text from his irritatingly informative older brother Mycroft;

"**This particular drug cycle is linked to the black lotus, Irene Adler and James Moriarty's people." **

Lestrade must be desperate if he was texting his older brother to help convince him. Sherlock frowned, even after three years after James Moriarty killed himself to force Sherlock to fake his own death and even after Sherlock's 'resurrection' so to speak, Moriarty's evil was still very much alive in the world. More frustrating still was Irene Adler's involvement. Even after he saved her life and helped her fake her own death, The Woman who beat him, suddenly decided to come back to life as well and mess with Sherlock once more. Sherlock sighed, _"villains will be villains"_ he thought to himself. He texted back Lestrade saying he'll do it to which Lestrade replied,

"**Then you two meet me at 436 Brooke St. 9:00"**

Sherlock smiled and returned his cell phone to the front pocket of the blazer he was wearing. Just then, John Watson groggily stomped into the room holding his morning tea. Sherlock didn't have to waste any time with observation, all he needed to see was his tired eyes to deduct he had a rather bad night's sleep.

The cause, Sherlock knew, was most likely due to another nightmare about his days in combat, watching his friends die around him, then to muddle into memories of watching Sherlock's 'suicide'. These nightmares have been getting more frequent and worse over the last two months. A slight shudder ran up Sherlock's spine, causing him to sit suddenly erect. Somehow seeing John so haunted even after three years, haunted Sherlock as well, and he couldn't stand it.

John slumped into the arm chair opposite Sherlock in front of the unlit fireplace. He sighed and mumbled, "Rough night," before sipping his tea. Sherlock glanced at him and nodded understandingly. Sherlock waited for John to finish his tea, knowing the caffeine was well needed for today's new case and Sherlock needed his doctor alert. Finally after what felt like an eternity to Sherlock, John sighed happily and placed his empty tea cup on the coffee table, finished.

Seeing that John was done with his tea; Sherlock shot up from his seat, grabbed his coat and scarf and began to put them on. He glanced at John while doing so and John's happy face turned into a frown. He sighed unhappily as Sherlock waved his cell phone towards him while struggling to put his handgun into his trench coat pocket. John took the non-verbal hint and with a grunt he got up from his chair and grabbed his coat, cell phone and handgun.

Then without saying a word they both walked downstairs, out the door and onto the busy Baker Street. John read over Sherlock's cellphone texts after he was handed it as Sherlock waved down a Cabbie driver. John now being informed and with a cab waved down, they both got in and were on their way to Brooke St.

While on their way there, Sherlock began to feel uncomfortable. He felt an annoying nagging in his head that he could not figure out. What he was struggling with was trying to remember why that certain address on Brooke St. seemed somewhat familiar to him, like a distant memory, a ghost of his past. John noticed Sherlock's apparent frustration,

"What?" he asked, turning to look at him, "What is it?"

"Not sure at the moment, there's something about this case that's bothering me, something familiar that I can't put my finger on." Sherlock replied, his eyes shut as he rubbed his temples with his fingers. He took a deep breath and sighed heavily, then shook his head dismissing the thoughts.

The taxi pulled up to the side of the road in front of a middleclass small home that had police tape framing the property. Inspector Lestrade saw the taxi pull up and he skipped down the house's front steps towards the road to meet them. As Watson paid the driver, Sherlock peered out of the cab window at the house and recognised the place,

"Oh." He whispered to himself as he opened the door and stepped out of the cab. Lestrade strode up to him, "Here you are again, here to solve another case for me" he joked. Lestrade continued to talk, mostly addressing Watson in casual conversation, but Sherlock wasn't listening. He continued to gaze up at the two story house confused. There was something haunting about it, something dark that was dancing in the back of his memories just out of reach. Suddenly Sherlock became aware that John and Lestrade were staring at him.

"Should we have a look then Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, raising an eyebrow. Sherlock shook his head, clearing the fog of his mind and nodded, "Yes, I believe **I** should." He gestured for the detective inspector to lead the way. The inspector gave an annoyed look at Sherlock then lead them up the steps and into the house. As soon as they stepped inside, the strong smell of marijuana entered their nostrils, along with other strong smells of multiple other drugs. Lestrade led them into the living room and there on the floor were two bodies, a male and a female.

The man, who was probably around Mycroft's age, lay on his back; his limbs sprawled across the floor. He was holding a gun still in his right hand and there was a single bullet wound in the centre of his forehead. Sherlock instantly deducted a homicide/suicide case. The woman to the man's right lay face down on the ground, blood pooled around her chest area, clearly from a bullet wound that pierced her heart from behind.

Sherlock knelt down and pulled out a pair of clean latex gloves that he had brought from his trench coat pocket. He began to search the man's coat.

"What did you find out so far?" Sherlock asked Lestrade, not looking up as he looked at the man's fingers to check for powder marks, which there were.

"Nothing much," Lestrade sighed, "Except recorded information of drug dealings, selling and buying, as well as receipts and bills. We know that she; the house owner had kept up on her mortgages, taxes and bills."

"Funny to think of drug dealers keeping up on bills and taxes and those sort of legal stuff," John joked.

Sherlock looked up at him and glared at him coldly, "There is nothing funny about drug dealing," he snapped then continued looking over the body. John was taken aback for a second, by Sherlock's sudden coldness. Usually he would be jumping with glee when he got a new case like this, and it would usually be by this time that he would have made at least two remarks on someone's lack of intelligence.

But as he watched he saw how completely focused and immersed Sherlock was on looking over the body. He was focused a little more than usual and his eyebrows furrowed in what John took as worry or confusion. He had hardly spoken a word to anyone, which was very unlike him. John had a feeling that somehow Sherlock felt personally connected to this case, probably because of his past as an addict.

Sherlock sighed annoyed, finding nothing useful on the man's body. He squinted his eyes and turned to the woman's body. "What's her name?" he asked. Lestrade pulled a notepad from his coat pocket and read,

"Silvia Mooresworth, she was unmarried, a dropout from Cambridge University chemistry, forty-two years of age and had a seventeen year old daughter who is currently missing, we are searching for her now. We have of yet to figure out who this man is."

Sherlock nodded, absorbing the information. _Silvia…Why did that name and this place feel so familiar?_ Sherlock returned his attention to her body. He reached over her body and looked at Lestrade to see if he was allowed to proceed. He nodded grimly, waving his hand in permission. John understood and walked over to assist Sherlock in gently turning the body over onto her back. Upon seeing her face Sherlock dropped his head down in grim acceptance, he rubbed his fingers through his thick dark curls. He sighed sadly as he stared at her familiar face.

It all made sense now, why he recognized her place, her name, and now her face. Sherlock had been here a few times before, many years ago, when he was struggling with his addictions. He had preferred going to her than some other drug dealers in the area, because she had been the most kind and understanding. She had acted more like a doctor or pharmacist towards her customers, and would not hesitate to warn them if they are taking a bit too much.

She had warned Sherlock on numerous occasions when his addictions were beginning to spiral out of control. He wasn't sure exactly if she treated everyone else the way she treated him, he had often observed her habit of attempting to flirt or seduce Sherlock, which had never worked. At least he was fairly certain he had no reaction. After all he was terribly high during those days, he had no memory of about half of those years.

Upon seeing her face John shook his head in pity, she had multiple bruises along her jaw and neckline. Looking at the bruises closer, he could see by their colour and puffiness that they were not fresh, they probably occurred earlier that week judging by their healing. Suspecting abuse, he gently rolled one of her arm sleeves up to her elbow and his suspicions were correct. She had small bruises on her arm and a large dark bruise around her wrists where someone had grabbed her tightly as she fought against the grip, these too were not fresh. John then got up and examined the dead man's hands and upon seeing his knuckles he knew who had done the abuse to the poor woman.

Although John had no sympathy for drug dealers, he did however deeply care about stopping abuse of this sort. John had a good friend in his childhood whose father abused his mother and him. One day he couldn't keep it a secret any longer and told John about everything his father had done. Ever since, John's blood boiled whenever he heard of men in relationships abusing a woman and her children.

John was just about to tell Sherlock about the abusive relationship, he opened his mouth and turned to him when Sherlock suddenly interrupted him, "I agree John, abusive relationship."

John shook his head, staring at his friend in bewilderment. You would think by now, with the years of knowing Sherlock, John would have gotten used to it, but his deductive skills and 'mind reading' never ceased to amaze him.

"Ok Sherlock, you know the rules, you need to tell me what you've got." Lestrade nagged from the corner, disrupting the pair from their observations. He stood staring at the two crossing his arms waiting. Sherlock got up with a grunt and turned to the inspector.

"Two dead, a man and a woman. She, Miss. Mooresworth was in an abusive relationship with this man here," he pointed to the man on the floor. Sherlock stepped over to Lestrade and stood beside him, and they continued to look over the bodies. Sherlock was in his 'explaining zone' he began to speak faster than the speed of human thought. In a rush he explained,

"Knowing the dead woman I would say when they started their romantic relationship of drug dealing and starting a family together that he didn't start out this way. She would have never started the relationship in the first place if he had been. I'd say that over the last four years, give or take, their relationship took a turn for the worse, maybe he started using himself, maybe he owed some dangerous people some money but whatever the problem was, it resulted in him becoming abusive. But getting back to the murder, I would say something happened over the last week. Maybe she told someone about the abuse, maybe she was cheating or maybe she was stealing their shared drug supply. Long story short, she was hiding something from him and when he found out he was furious. He then stormed into the home while she wasn't expecting him. He took his gun and shot her while she had her back turned to him. Then in fear of being caught he, knowing the police would find the drugs and the paperwork linked to him, he decided his best option was to shoot himself."

John looked at his friend confused, "Wait, what do you mean 'knowing her'…are you saying you knew her?" Guilty, Sherlock nodded his head and looked to the floor.

"Yes. I met her a few times a very long time ago, when I was struggling with…addictions…" Sherlock trailed off embarrassed, ashamed but then he added, "But I don't do that anymore, those days are far behind me." Lestrade snorted suddenly. He looked at Sherlock snickering with a doubtful look on his face. "Shut up!" Sherlock snapped at the inspector. John just rolled his eyes.

"Did they refuse to give you more drugs and then you shot them?" said a woman's voice that made Sherlock and John's skin just crawl with annoyance.

Everyone turned to see Sargent Sally Donovan leaning in the doorway arms crossed, with the usual displeased look on her face. She walked into the room and raised an eyebrow smugly at Sherlock.

"Ah, Sargent Donovan. Seeing you brings such joy to my heart." Sherlock spat at her sarcastically.

Donovan raised an eyebrow, and shifted her weight, "You, have a heart?" she asked coldly.

"Yes, just not towards you."

"Than what does your heart lean towards?"

"Pumping blood through my veins," Sherlock stated, annoyed at Donovan's presence. John chuckled grinning at Sherlock. Sherlock gave a small grin back, his eyes dancing with laughter. She rolled her eyes and walked across the room into the hallway.

"Is there anything else you want to show me inspector, lists, files, information?" Sherlock asked impatiently. The DI nodded and motioned his hand to follow him as he led them down the hall then downstairs. Once they had gotten to the basement, Sherlock's mood brightened greatly. He looked like a boy in a toy store as he waltzed around the drug making laboratory. He started laughing with glee as he played with the laboratory equipment.

"Oh excellent! Ah!...Just beautiful!" he shouted with joy.

John rolled his eyes and whispered to Sherlock in warning, "Do you really want to look so comfortable in a drug lab in front of the police?"

Lestrade gave him a warning look. Sherlock stopped for a moment, recalibrating his mind to the job at hand. He began to really look around this time. The small basement was dimly lit, except for the one florescent light that lit the large table in a greenish tint. On the table were Bunsen burners, beakers, vials, bottles, and a camping hot plate with a pot on top among other laboratory equipment. It was well organized, considering the purpose of making drugs. There were filing cabinets full of paperwork on one side of the room, across the room on the other side were buckets and bags and boxes of drug making ingredients. Battery acid, pesticides, gasoline, rat poisoning etc. They had it all. Sargent Donovan strode over to the walk in closet and let out a low whistle when she opened the door.

Inside the closet it was full to capacity with large duct tape wrapped bundles of cocaine and marijuana. There were also dozens of cardboard boxes that, when opened, revealed packets of narcotics, crystal meth, speedballs and heroin. When Lestrade saw the sheer amount of drugs they had just discovered his face lit up like a Christmas tree, he gave a hearty whoop! He and Sargent Donovan began patting each other on their backs, laughing. Lestrade grinned as he called in more police cars to pick up and safely transport the stash of drugs to a secure location to be catalogued then destroyed.

Upon seeing the drugs, Sherlock became very uneasy, in fact he felt sick. Lestrade watched as Sherlock became suddenly withdrawn as he stared at the ceiling with a blank expression. Seeing Sherlock's reaction, John understood as well as the Inspector. He was trying to calm himself while trying to distract his mind from temptation.

"Sherlock?" John asked, he stepped forward and gently touched his arm to try and bring him back into reality. Upon contact, Sherlock suddenly flinched with a slight gasp. John had thought with his drug abuse far behind in his past, that Sherlock could take it, but the bulk of the drugs that lay right before him proved to be too hard for him to take.

"Sherlock, If you have nothing else to tell me, you can leave now," Lestrade offered cautiously, "We will transport all the documents in these file folders to your flat."

John and the inspector waited patiently for his response. Sherlock noticed Sally staring at him with a suspicious look and he took a deep breath and nodded, "Alright. Thank you, we'll be on our way then."

As he and John began to make their way up the stairs, Sherlock stopped and turned to the inspector. "Oh, and Lestrade," he begun while smiling mischievously, "Keep a good eye on Sargent Donovan, I know she likes drugs as much as I used to." And with that, Sherlock and John proceeded up the stairs.

Donovan stood frozen in disbelief. The inspector turned to her with a questioning look. Sally was beside herself,

"I was in college! I only tried it on three different occasions, that's all! I'm not an addict!" she protested. The Detective inspector didn't look like he was buying it. Sally didn't know what to do she screamed after Sherlock, "I'm Not an Addict!"


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2:

The next morning, the police arrived with two large crates which contained all the records and documents found in the Mooresworth home. The men informed Sherlock that once Lestrade was done for the morning at the station, he would take a cab and personally deliver the police files on the victims to their flat. John came down from his room and sat at the kitchen table, which was cluttered as usual, with Sherlock who was already focused on reading through the files.

A question had been burning in his mind all night, something he wanted to ask Sherlock about yesterday, but felt it wasn't the best time to talk to him about. He grunted to get Sherlock's attention but his face remained behind the document he was reading, completely submerged in the words, oblivious of John's presence. John made an annoyed face, he leaned forward and spoke,

"So…" he began.

Sherlock suddenly lowered the paper in a dramatic rustling and stared intensely at John with his usual unblinking fixed stare. He sat waiting for John to continue, he raised an eyebrow when John did not immediately respond. John cleared his throat awkwardly, and continued,

"So, you knew her then? The murder victim from yesterday?" he was about to continue when Sherlock interrupted him groaning.

"John, I'd rather not talk about this. I know you are subconsciously trying to learn more about my past which I have unintentionally hinted around you before on various occasions. But…" he sighed, "I just don't want to talk about it. All you need to know about those days is that it was… it wasn't the best life back then." He raised the document once again, covering his face.

John nodded and didn't press the subject further. He knew he was not going to get anything else out of him.

"Alright, then say we change the topic. I've got another question for you."

Sherlock sighed annoyed and continued reading. John ignored his reaction,

"Ok. How did you know about Sargent Donovan's drug use in college?"

Sherlock's face suddenly brightened with a mischievous smile. He set down the sheet of paper again and clasped his hands on the table.

"I didn't, but **now** I know." He grinned, his blue eyes lit up with amusement.

Confused John's eyebrows furrowed, "You, didn't know?" he asked, shocked that Sherlock had simply guessed.

"Well," Sherlock joked, "I had my suspicions of Donovan; she's the kind of woman I could easily see getting caught up into something like that while she was young. Honestly, I was simply irritated by her comments so I commented back. I knew how much Lestrade trusts my word as the gospel truth and I knew he could easily be fooled into believing I had deducted her past. I was just poking fun at her and I turned out to be right!"

He looked at John, grinning stupidly, and then they both began to laugh for a good fifteen seconds when they were interrupted by Mrs. Hudson who had popped her head into the doorway. John chuckled and waved her inside with a warm smile,

"Come on in Mrs. Hudson, we're just working."

Mrs. Hudson smiled sweetly as she entered the flat. She turned towards them; she clasped her hands in front of the folds of her purple skirt. She tilted her head as she spoke, "Sherlock, there is a young lady at the door who insists she must speak with you."

John looked at Sherlock with a questioning look. Sherlock shrugged his shoulders having no idea who it might be. Irritated by the girl's interruption of their work he chose to ignore her request,

"Tell her to go away Mrs. Hudson. I'm working."

Mrs. Hudson shrugged unsure; a slight worried look crossed her face.

"Ok dear," Mrs. Hudson said as she turned to leave, "But she seems quite nervous and scared, the poor girl's got an awful bruise on her head. She says she's here to help you."

"Help me?" Sherlock echoed confused, his eyes squinted at Mrs. Hudson. "Please tell me she's not one of those door to door religious types."

"I don't think so dear." Mrs. Hudson said shaking her head.

John leaned towards Sherlock, "Maybe you should go and see who it is," he suggested shrugging.

There was a short silence as John and Mrs. Hudson waited for him to decide what to do. Having made up his mind, Sherlock looked at the two of them then rose from his chair, straightened and buttoned his blazer around his slim frame and then made his way down the stairs to the front door.

Curious, Sherlock opened the door and behind it he found a young teenaged girl, probably seventeen he estimated. She was much shorter than him, and from his observations, she was probably shorter than Watson too. 5'1'' he decided. From what he could tell by her coat, she was not petite but she was not overweight, she looked quite healthy. She wore a black trench coat with a red knitted scarf and black leather gloves. On her head she wore a black Red Ricci fedora with a red stripe and under that her long, light brown hair flowed out fairly straight but with a slight wave.

She had somewhat high cheekbones and she wore makeup on her lips and eyes, but nothing dramatic, it was very natural looking. She had small eyes, plump lips and a slightly larger nose but she was quite pretty despite this. He noticed the dark brown purple bruise that peeked out from under her fedora. The bruise stood out like a sore thumb against her pale, fair complexion. Other than her appearance, he could read nothing about her, which was confusing and frustrating for Sherlock. She was giving no hints to her purpose of meeting him. He was somewhat mystified by this fact, it was like the time he had first met Irene Adler and she was a blank slate to him. He had no idea who she was. She looked up at him with hazel green eyes and asked,

"Sherlock Holmes?"

She spoke in a deeper voice for a young woman, it had a slight rasp to it, and it rolled with her words, somewhat similar to the way that he spoke. But her voice was unlike the irritating teenaged popular girl's raspy voices they put on nowadays.

"Yes?..."

"My name is Mercy. I am Silvia Mooresworth's daughter. I have much to tell you, it's very important."

Sherlock's eyes widened with surprise, he stared down at her noticing suddenly her resemblance to Silvia. After a pause he spoke to her, "The police are looking for you."

She nodded grimly; she shrugged her shoulders and rubbed her neck as she spoke.

"Oh yes, I know. But I am pretty good at avoiding them. I don't want to be under their custody, they are all idiots and I know that they would only focus on trying to charge me with involvement with a drug dealer, even if I told them I was not involved, she was only my mother, not my business partner. I would rather be interviewed or interrogated, whatever you call it, by you." She stood blank faced, blinking her thick long lashes, looking high up above her to his face waiting for his response.

Sherlock was confused by her calm coolness, considering she had just lost her mother and that the police were currently looking for her even at this moment. He was also confused about something else, he looked down at her, tilting his head and asked, "How do you know who I am, and where you would find me?"

Mercy's stone face suddenly broke as she gave a sly little smile, "Oh I know a lot about you and your…'hobby' of solving crimes. You would be surprised how much I know about you, I know things about you that you didn't even know about yourself." She laughed when she saw his awkward and slightly disturbed face. She crossed her arms in front of her, her face becoming solemn once again,

"Don't worry, I'm not a stalker or a fan girl or anything else of that sort, I'm…." she paused as if she was reconsidering saying something. She swayed back and forth awkwardly deep in thought and then after taking a deep breath she continued, "Let's just say, I've read your website and I follow the Dr.'s blog and,… that we have more in common with each other than having known my mother," she dropped her gaze awkwardly. She blushed, embarrassed.

Sherlock was feeling uncomfortable, he had no idea what she was hinting at, but he agreed that she was right. The police are idiots. He looked at the sky above for a moment then continued to question her, "You told Mrs. Hudson that you were here to help me, yes?"

Mercy nodded sternly, "Yes, I have information. I knew the man who murdered my mother and tried to kill me," she gestured at her bruise and then proceeded in rolling the collar down of her trench coat. She removed her scarf and pulled her shirt away to reveal bruises around her neck. The lines of bruises were obviously caused by a person's hands; most likely male judging by size and apparent strength in an attempt to strangle her. Sherlock's eyes widened with surprise that this small girl had managed to escape his clutches. She sighed and put her scarf back on and re-buttoned the top portion of her coat.

"I can also give you inside information on the Black Lotus and drug dealers we were associated with, information you will not find on those documents that you have in your possession. My mother was not stupid, she knew if she was raided and if she was still alive and the police learned about the Black lotus through her documents, the Black Lotus would find her and kill her and myself."

Sherlock was now beginning to understand why she came straight to him; she wanted to kill the drug industry that killed her mother as soon as possible. He now realized just how valuable she was and how much she had to be protected. If any of the Black Lotus were to see her, they would kill his only key to opening the London drug world's door wide open. He looked around Baker Street and gazed at the yellow spray painted eye that stood watching their flat from across the street. He reached for her shoulder and led her inside the door, and locked the door behind them. He reached out his hand towards her and asked for her coat, she shook her head and shooed his hand away. He took this motion as her letting him know she doesn't exactly trust him just yet. But in reality Mercy just wanted to cover her neck from Mrs. Hudson because she had seen the worried look on her face when she saw the bruise on her forehead.

"Welcome to our base of operations Miss Mooresworth," Sherlock said as he hiked up the stairs to the flat's kitchen and living room where John was still working. Sherlock stepped first into the room; John looked up at him from his papers and notes, eyebrows raised.

"So…What was that about…?" John began but trailed off when he saw the young girl walk into the room. Sherlock cleared his throat and straightened himself as he addressed John,

"This is Mercy Mooresworth, the no longer missing daughter of Silvia Mooresworth, she is here to provide us with information if we in return offer her a place to stay and be protected from the Black Lotus and other drug lords."

"Sherlock? Who is going to be staying here and for how long?" Mrs. Hudson called from downstairs as she began to climb the stairs. Sherlock rolled his eyes, irritated. When she entered the room he explained,

"Mercy Mooresworth, the girl who came to our door, Mrs. Hudson. She will stay here for however long she continues to keep up her side of the bargain and is of use to us. She could stay in your spare apartment, you know, the one where we found Carl Power's shoes."

"But who will pay the rent Sherlock? I'm sure she's a nice girl, but I have bills to pay. I don't suppose that she will be paying the rent and you struggle to pay the rent yourself." Mrs. Hudson complained.

Mercy cleared her throat suddenly breaking the tension and walked up to Sherlock and leaned in towards him whispering, "Mr. Holmes there is something I need to tell you now before you continue, but I would prefer to tell you in private, I rather not say it in front of your roommate and landlady." She looked desperately at his face, her green/hazel eyes darting as she tried to read his response. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and straightened up.

"If that would make you more comfortable," he began cautiously when Mercy interrupted him, "Actually, it's more about not making you uncomfortable in front of them, what I have to say may be very personal to you…and to me."

Sherlock shook his head in defiance, "Nonsense, there is not many things that you could say that would make me uncomfortable. I do not care; you can say anything in front of my friends. Go ahead Miss Mooresworth." He stood waiting and looking at her, his hands placed snugly in his blazer pockets. John sipped his coffee mug as he and Mrs. Hudson looked at her as well.

Mercy stood awkwardly in front of them, her face suddenly blushing with embarrassment. She looked down at her feet for a moment, sighing and calming herself before she looked up again at Sherlock seriously.

"That's just it Mr. Holmes…" she began as she shoved her hands into her coat pocket, "I'm not only a Mooresworth, that's only my second last name, the name of my mother. My first last name, the name of my father is **Holmes**. I am Mercy Danielle **Holmes**-Mooresworth." She looked at Sherlock with piercing, honest eyes as she spoke, "I am your daughter, Sherlock."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3:

The coffee John had just sipped suddenly went down wrong and he choked for a moment. The drink suddenly spewed out of his mouth and jetted across the table he coughed sputtering.

"WHAT?" John coughed, looking at Sherlock for an explanation. Mrs. Hudson's mouth hung open, speechless; she had the stupidest expression as she stared at poor Mercy and Sherlock. Sherlock's face was completely blank but his wild eyes told all. He stared at her, pupils dilated, like a frightened animal, his mouth hang open a crack. His eyes darted as he looked her up and down multiple times; his mouth kept opening as if he was about to say something, but then he shut it after forgetting what he was going to say. The tension in the room was electric, and it was so silent you could hear a needle drop.

Sherlock was finally about to say something when a sudden, loud knocking came from the front door, breaking the silence. Everyone stood staring at each other, unsure what to do. There came another knock, and finally Mrs. Hudson decided to go downstairs and answer the door. Sherlock, Mercy and John remained upstairs and listened intently to hear who it was. While they listened, John stared at the two of them, his eyes looking back and forth between the girl and his best friend. From what he could tell, he saw very little physical resemblance between the two, but there was something about her, the way she spoke, the way she stood…

"Hello Mrs. Hudson, I'm here to deliver these to Sherlock." they heard Detective Inspector Lestrade's voice say from downstairs. John and Sherlock looked at each other in a panic.

"Oh, hello Greg, come on in." Mrs. Hudson said cheerfully as she invited him in. Sherlock's eyebrows shot up as he mouthed a frustrated 'NO!'. He waved his hands in the air in frustration.

"What is he doing here?! Now? I thought he said he would stop by in the afternoon!" John whispered frantically.

Mercy looked at the both of them, the two frightened men who obviously knew the visitor well and didn't want her to be discovered. She understood they did not want him to know she was Sherlock's daughter, at least not yet. She quickly walked up to Sherlock and whispered,

"Where is your toilet?"

She gave him a look of understanding and watched as a brief wave of relief washed over his face. He nodded and grabbed her by her coat then quickly ushered her down the hall and stuffed her into the small apartment washroom. Mercy shut the door behind her. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief and then joined John and Lestrade who were standing together in the living room.

"Ah." Lestrade said, grinning when Sherlock entered the room and handed him a file of police documents. "Here you are, Sherlock. Everything we have on the victims."

"Thank you." Sherlock said, his voice unintentionally wavering. He coughed, trying to cover up his reaction, then snatched the papers from Lestrade's hands.

The Inspector stared at him, tilting his head,

"Are you getting the flu Sherlock? You're paler than usual. In fact…" he turned and looked at John and then back to Sherlock, "You both look somewhat pale…"

John looked at his friend, his face bent down, stiff. "I don't know about myself, Inspector, but I do think Sherlock is going to be sick. He's just experienced some… unnerving news."

"Shut up, I'm fine!" Sherlock snapped, glaring at John in warning.

"What type of news? Has one of your experiments backfired on you?" Lestrade chuckled, curious. He grinned teasingly.

"You could say that I suppose…" John mumbled. Sherlock angrily interrupted him,

"John, Shut up!"

"Well," Lestrade began as he made his way back towards the stairs, "If it has anything to do with exploding human eyeballs in the microwave, I don't want to know." He nodded goodbye to the two and made his way down the stairs. He said a farewell to Mrs. Hudson and then went out the door.

John crouched down, his hands resting on his knees as he breathed a huge sigh of relief. Mrs. Hudson hastily ran up the stairs to join them again. She looked nervously at her 'boys'. Sherlock rushed down the hall to the bathroom door and briefly paused before knocking on the wood cautiously.

"Mercy?" he called, his voice cracking. He was unable to bear with the suspense of waiting for her to come out and explain. He had thousands of questions for her whirling around in his mind. For what felt like an eternity, there was only silence from the other side of the door when suddenly he heard her respond. There was silence from the other side of the door for what felt like an eternity to him, when he heard her suddenly respond.

"One would think that two grown men like yourselves would, by now, remember to put the toilet seat down after you were done." came Mercy's muffled voice from within. Sherlock heard the door unlock and watched as she stepped out and into the hall with a displeased look on her face. Sherlock frowned, then led her back into the living room, and sat her down abruptly into a chair. He stood before her with piercing eyes, blank faced.

"Answers. Now, Miss…" he broke off, not wanting to mutter her last names. His face twitched. He cleared his throat and continued, "I want explanation. I want proof because I can guarantee you that what you are suggesting is impossible. I was never involved with your mother. I've never been involved with anyone in fact." He stated, beginning to pace before her.

"Well, I'm here. I exist, so obviously that's not entirely true" Mercy stated as she gingerly removed her coat and scarf. Mrs. Hudson gasped when she saw the scars and bruises that decorated her neck and lower arms. Mercy sighed; disappointed she couldn't hide them from the kind, older lady.

"Really? No-one?" John asked, somewhat surprised. Sherlock shot him an annoyed look and John looked away, embarrassed. John looked back to Mercy again tilting his head as he tried to remember her mother's face.

"Well it's obvious who your mother was, you look so much like her and you have many of the same injuries…" John said softly, looking at the abuse that she had suffered. Mercy nodded grimly, she knew she looked just like her mother in many ways.

"Yes, the majority of my looks come from my mother. I know I share very little with my father here; my mum always said that was a shame." She gave a half smile, looked up at her father and continued,

"Ok, your answers." She said leaning forward in her chair and clasped her hands in front of her. She grinned as she addressed Sherlock, her eyes following him as he paced in front of her. She spoke almost as quickly as the speed of thought, creepily similar to Sherlock, as she explained everything to him.

"How did I come to be? Well you're a grown man, and a man of science. You should undoubtedly know how human reproduction occurs, so I need not explain the 'birds and the bees' to you, however, you obviously do not recall the conditions under which I was conceived. Obviously I was not there to witness anything so I can't give a firsthand account, however my mother has told me enough to explain the situation. You were very young at the time, probably around nineteen and on the night you visited my mother you had a ton of drugs in your system because you were, trying to escape your depression…"

"How did you…?" Sherlock interrupted, his voice cracked, his eyebrows furrowed in shock.

"Wait, Sherlock. Do you have depression?" John asked, suddenly concerned. Mrs. Hudson gave a small gasp, covering her mouth and looking sadly at Sherlock.

"Sherlock…" She whispered, resting her hand on her chest.

Sherlock said nothing; he glared at Mercy, who had had no idea he had never told anyone. She was now regretting saying that.

"Well, anyway," she began, trying to change the subject back to the story.

"My mother was around twenty five at the time and also happened to be under the influence that night. She had become drunk to try and get over her recent breakup with yet another man. She was feeling lonely, desperate and frustrated that she could not stay in a relationship. She was looking to feel loved and she had been attracted to you for quite a long time, and that night you happened to come to her door higher than Big Ben. You came at the wrong time, and under the wrong circumstances. You were originally looking for drugs but you got more than you bargained for."

Sherlock stood staring, speechless. _I became a father at nineteen?_ He thought to himself, in absolute shock. Mercy coughed awkwardly and paused as she removed her fedora and held it in her hands. She looked up at her father with a sad expression.

"My mother never saw you again after that night. Someone told her that you had gone into rehab and, surprisingly, she was happy for you and wished you all the best of luck in getting clean. When she found out she was pregnant with me, she had decided to keep me but she felt she didn't deserve to have a child. She knew that having a mother who was a drug dealer would be a dangerous life. 'God have **mercy** on me' she said. But she kept me and hoped to someday find you and introduce us. She never expected to fall in love with you and live happily ever after once we were reacquainted but she felt that if I was part of your life I could help you and that I needed a father figure. But before she got the chance, she met Mike, Mike Birch, her lover and now, her killer. It was a perfect relationship and partnership at first. He took over the dealing while she raised me. However, he was never my father, I never liked him and he didn't like me either. In fact, he was scared of me, thought I was a monster. But he was the monster. About three years ago, he began to take some of the drugs himself and he believed he was in control. I discovered this and confronted him while he was caught in the act. He threatened that if I told mum he would beat me, I told him 'good luck with that'. I then told my mother and he was too cowardly in the end to lay a finger on me. My mother tried to make him stop but he started hurting her, calling her stupid and saying she didn't love him and overall manipulating her and making her like a possession. Watching first hand experiencing a loved one be destroyed by drugs, my mother wanted out of the drug business. He became terribly abusive towards my mother and I would literally have to fight him off most nights to stop him hurting her. He was a weakling though, he didn't know how to fight, I always won. But every time I kicked him out, he always came back and somehow convinced my pathetic mother to let him stay. But my mother was becoming terrified of what I was becoming. I was aggressive, full of rage and I would not hesitate to take a knife and threaten him if he got within three steps of her. She wanted to take me and run away to a shelter and start a new life. But he found out our plans and didn't want her to leave. Thursday night, my mother and I were at home. I had kicked him out of the house two nights before and we didn't expect him to come back so soon. He barged into our house and without warning, he shot my unaware mother dead. I ran into the living room and saw my mother and saw the gun. He had never owned a gun so I don't know where he got it. He pointed it at me, smiling. He was going to shoot me, but he decided that strangling me to death would be much more enjoyable. He chased me into the kitchen and cornered me against the wall, then tried to choke me but I was wearing my coat at the time and I knew I had my baton. I hit him over the head with it. he dropped his gun in pain and I knee'd him in the crotch and it gave me enough time to run out the back door and escape. I've been living on the streets since that night; I knew if I stayed with friends the police could find me."

John shook his head in amazement.

"Oh my, you poor dear!" Mrs. Hudson said, tears filling her eyes.

"You were able to take on a grown man in a fist fight and come out on top? I have to say it's a little hard to believe, considering your age and how small you are." John said, standing up as he spoke. Mercy raised a disapproving eyebrow at him.

"Sorry to be blunt Doctor, but you don't have an impressive height yourself. Height makes no difference for me in a fight."

"But you need experience. I was in the army, I've been to war. I'm a trained fighter."

Mercy chuckled and looked at him in challenge,

"I've been in wars, Doctor, just they were different. You were fighting for your country, I for my mother. At first I didn't know how to fight and I would lose but over time I got stronger, I'm self-taught, self-trained. Never underestimate a young person because they are short and female. I'm stronger than you would think and what I lack in strength, I make up with the power of my mind which gives me a distinct advantage. Also, I have my weapons besides my methods of defending myself."

"Yes, where did you get your baton? May we see it?" Sherlock asked, stretching his hand out towards her. Mercy shrugged and took the expandable black baton from her coats inner pocket and handed it to him. Sherlock looked the weapon over and with a jerk of his wrist, he expanded it to its full length.

"This is a policeman's baton. How did you come across this?"

"Oh, I pickpocketed an annoying policeman who wanted to ask questions about my mother a few years ago."

John looked at her with amusement now, seeing more and more similarities between the two.

Sherlock looked thoughtful for a moment; he looked at the young lady for a long time, silent. His hands were resting under his chin, clasped as if in prayer. He was lost deep in thought, his eyes glazed over.

"Well…" He said finally, suddenly clearing his throat and smiling at Mercy as if he was amused.

"This is definitely a very interesting story. However, just because your story consists of some facts and considerably possible circumstances that I could not recall because of my addiction… It does not make your story true. I cannot and I will not accept what you are stating as fact without proof. I refuse to believe that you, a young, short girl who looks nothing like me, are my daughter without all the facts and evidence made clear to me." He said skeptically. His icy eyes glared coldly at her for a moment then he turned away and picked up his violin from its open case near the fireplace window. He held it in his hands but didn't play; he just looked at it and stroked its smooth, varnished wood as if in comfort.

Mercy frowned and looked up at him bitterly,

"I knew you wouldn't believe me. But it's true, **Dad**," she spat, protesting.

Sherlock put his beloved violin down and turned towards her again, his annoyance and embarrassment building inside of him.

"I will not accept it as truth unless you can provide concrete and factual evidence to me. There is only one way of truly determining whether you are or are not my offspring, a DNA test."

John nodded in agreement. He had almost bought the story but he remembered that he had to be reasonable with the facts.

"Alright. I do not object to that but they will only confirm my story, I'm afraid." Mercy nodded in understanding, but then remembered her situation, "May I stay here until you have the results? I know these things take time and in the meanwhile I can still assist you with your investigation."

Sherlock grimaced slightly because he honestly didn't want to be around her for much longer. He felt very uncomfortable about the whole situation but she had a point, she had to be protected and she was a key contributor to the investigation.

"Would that be alright, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock asked, turning to his landlady.

Mrs. Hudson looked thoughtful for a moment. She still felt very unsure about the whole thing.

"She can stay until you get the results of the test, but after that, whether she's your daughter or not, someone will have to pay for her rent." She said, sighing, then she went downstairs to her flat to make herself a cup of tea to calm her uneasiness.

John knew what to do now; it was made clear when Sherlock looked at him while mentioning a DNA test. Someone had to arrange it and John was, after all, a doctor.

"Well, DNA tests do take a while. It should give us enough time to sort it all out with the rent."

John said, scratching the top of his head. He got up, grabbed his laptop, sat down again and began to write out an email to Molly Hooper to ask a few questions about Bart Hospital's DNA testing.

Mercy sat silently for a minute, then looked up at Sherlock, blank faced, and spoke.

"So..."

She began, trying to change the subject back to her mother's murder and get over the extreme awkward vibe of the room.

"Do you have any more questions about two nights ago? Or how my mother and Mike worked?"

Sherlock nodded, relieved that they could talk about something else.

"Yes... What role did your mother play in working for the...?"

He was cut off suddenly when a loud grumbling came from Mercy's stomach. She held it in embarrassment.

"Sorry…" she said, blushing, "I haven't eaten in 2 days."

Sherlock sighed and walked into the kitchen to see if there was any food. Other than a little milk, pickles, and some moldy cheese, there was nothing in the fridge to eat. Unless Mercy wanted to eat some frozen pigs eyes that Sherlock was saving for an experiment. But then Sherlock suddenly remembered they had some cereal so he found the box and poured a bowl for her.

Mercy got up when she realized it was slightly risky to eat the cereal in the nice arm chair she was sitting on, so she started picking up the papers and files that cluttered the kitchen table and put them into a nice little pile so that she could eat there.

"Thank you," Mercy said quietly as Sherlock placed the bowl and spoon on the table in front of her. He sat across from her and waited for her to get a few mouthfuls into her stomach before he continued asking questions. After a few bites, he cleared his throat to get her attention. She looked up from the bowl and swallowed. She nodded at him, ready for his questions.

"Who did you work for? What role did your mother play in drug dealing?" He asked her patiently, his voice strangely calming and clear; his tone like any adult asking a child a question. She ignored his tone. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve and leaned back into the chair, smiling warmly at him.

"She worked as a drug dealer for a Chinese criminal organization called The Black Lotus..." She began.

"Yes, I know who they are." Sherlock stated, interrupting her.

Mercy raised her eyebrows, surprised,

"Really? I thought they were an extremely secretive and hidden part of London's underworld. They seem very resourceful and very careful to get rid of loose ends. I guess I should be careful then, eh?"

She said calmly before taking another bite of her cereal. She continued, her voice slightly muffled by the food in her mouth,

"She would also supply to the local druggies, like you those years ago, but her main income was from the Black Lotus. Every month they would send a smuggler to our door to pick up a large stash of drugs and transport those to a warehouse that was located about 8 miles from Baskerville, I believe. The stash you found in the basement was to be picked up any day this week by a smuggler. Once they retrieved the drugs and paid us, they would then they would distribute it in smaller portions to different smugglers to smuggle into Hong Kong via planes, boats etc."

"How did they get through the border security?"

Mercy shrugged, "They wouldn't tell us. We didn't need to know, I guess."

Sherlock grabbed a file from the pile Mercy had made and showed it to her. It was a record of the dealings.

"And this shows her dealings with the Black Lotus, yes?" He asked, pointing at it. Mercy didn't even glance at the sheet of paper; she continued to look at him with dull eyes. She shook her head and smiled smugly at him.

"Remember, I told you that you would find nothing linking her to the Black Lotus in any of those files. She recorded them somewhere else..."

"Where?" Sherlock asked, leaning in, becoming more interested.

Mercy leaned in too, her grin growing wider.

"She wrote them on her legs with a permanent marker then she would wash it off after a month. The only real record she kept was her bank deposits after she was paid, but she made sure to deposit approximately the same amount every two weeks like anyone else with a regular income," She said looking at him. grinning at the cleverness of it.

"You'll have to re-examine her body."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose in admiration of the genius. He called out to John, who was in the living room. "John, we need to go to Bart's. I need to go to the Morgue."


End file.
